Sweaty Palms & Secret Saturdays

The orange tabby cat was the only one who didn't judge me for showing up to Jordan's party wearing a beanie in eighty-degree weather. Hat hair was better than the catastrophe hiding underneath anyway.

"You good?" Jordan asked, sliding onto the porch swing next to me.

My palms were sweating so much I had to wipe them on my jeans. "Yeah. Just needed air."

The cat—Jordan's mom called him Mochi—curled up on my converse like he'd known me forever. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for the excuse to avoid eye contact.

"You're not like, gonna ditch, right?" Jordan's voice was casual, but their eyes said something else. Please don't leave me alone with these people.

Inside, someone put on that song everyone pretended to like. Laughter erupted, too loud and too sharp.

"Nah," I said, finally meeting Jordan's gaze. "I'm good. Just—overwhelming in there."

Jordan nodded, understanding flashing across their face. They reached into their hoodie pocket and pulled out a slightly bruised orange. "Snack? I stole it from the fruit bowl before my cousin could turn everything into acai bowls."

I laughed. Jordan's toes knocked against mine when they shifted closer. The cat purred like a tiny motor, completely unbothered by two awkward teenagers figuring out how to exist at a party.

"Nice hat," Jordan said softly.

I pulled the beanie off, letting my messy curls spring free. Jordan didn't flinch. Didn't ask about the uneven patches where I'd messed up cutting my own hair two weeks ago, fueled by too much overthinking and a YouTube tutorial.

"Thanks," I said.

The orange glow of the sunset caught Jordan's profile as they peeled the fruit. For the first time all night, my palms stopped sweating.

Sometimes the best moments aren't the ones you plan for. They're just sitting on a porch swing, sharing a stolen orange, while a random cat decides you're worth sticking around for.